


Throat

by leogrl19



Series: Seduction in Skyhold [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: #Team JAM, AHAHAHA, Brin works out her feelings, Chapter 8 was all an excuse to write the Hate Sex, Don't Try This At Home, F/F, no but seriously, this is dark guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leogrl19/pseuds/leogrl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 4, Honesty is the best policy (Or: 'Hold your breath. Make a wish.')</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throat

**Author's Note:**

> I mentioned an ‘in the works’ SiS accompaniment, no? This is the true end to chapter 8 in HtADI (so read that last scene again; *refresh*). Because. Come on: did you REALLY think all that TENSION wasn’t gonna end with sex? SRSLY. But! As much fun (too much) as I have with tags, I am serious; this is an uncensored/unapologetic exploration of dark emotion. Judgy Judys (who’ll read this anyway, then deny it) need not apply.
> 
> VIVA LA JAM!!!

* * *

 

Brin watched her:

the unsure shoulders,

the quivering _lip_ —

“Would you have quit?” A curled fist; held _tension_. Her words break the silence—the soft, watery breaths—reach the human through the **heaviness** of the room. “If you hadn’t killed him.”

A slow glance— _up_ : shiny, bright eyes—tucked, remorseful fingers. “Would I have,” her voice _splits_ ; her jaw clenches, “I…” low, dark brows. Their eyes disconnect, “do not know.”

She looks at the woman — thinks she _does_.

_Stop_.  ** _Lying_**.

“Did you _like_ it?” The bookcase was abandoned; a heavy approach—and she _likes_ the way the human _reacts_ , the uncertain brush against that desk in retreat. “Everything but the _killing_?”

‘The life she thought she wanted’. She doesn't _know_ that fickleness. Choosing a course—  _tossing it away_ …

Because it wasn’t **_convenient_**?

Her fingers _twitch_.

“I was,” the elf cocked her head, “ill suited to many things, in that life…”

“You switched your dagger for a quill.” Behind a desk. Away from the _dirty bits_ ; Brin pushed her to the hard surface. _Pinned_ her there. “Became a _diplomat_.”

“Inquisitor…”

A thumb to her lips.

Down,

down,

to the center of her throat.

Following fabric, following skin: rich. Smooth. Several, harsh _flicks_ —

_Pop_ ,

And the buttons are gone.

She added the rest of her fingers—a complete hand around the woman’s neck—marked the sharp contrast: a pale grip against a dusky pillar.

_Tight_ —

“ _Brin_ —”

_Fear_.

Her thumb _dug_ into a pulse point — felt it _jolt_ and _shiver_ …

“You've gotten everything you wanted…”

_Squeeze_.

She isn't **_bitter_** ,

She would have helped the woman _without_ the sex.

**_Feelings_** don’t _matter_ —

Never mattered — never **_will_** :

That's _responsibility_.

But. To see her get— _it_. To see the human _get it_ **_all_** …

The throat quakes beneath her.

Nails score her hand.

What does that relief _taste_ like—

what is that _joy_?

Looking _those things_ in the **_face_** …

Should she _pat her on the back_? _Smile_?

_Squeeze_.

She can't do any of those things—

A hand up her skirts.

She **_can_** do this.

Items spill over the desk, rattle, clink and shatter. Brin watched the human’s hand, the clumsy, frantic scramble—the **_instinct_** —as it searched and _pushed_ — _wrapped_ around a polished handle—

Released a thin blade,

A dressing knife.

_Fitting_. **_Pretty_**. “What are you going to do with that?” Stretched lips. “ _Cut_ me?” She didn’t back away. She moved _closer_. “ _Can_ you?”

The hinged blade _shook_ ;

Rose. Lowered.

_Sneer_. “Do it.” Because that would be **_real_**. Not like the lies; pretenses; _faces_ …

She’d have to **_own_** _it_.

A tighter grip.

The knife _hesitates_.

_Tighter_ ,

“ _Do it_.”

The blade nicks her skin—

Clatters to the ground.

A bead of blood—

She’s **_impressed_**.

Those grey orbs _respond_ : wide. Distraught. Wetness gathered in their corners—

swift down her cheek,

A flow of meanings without _words_.

“You’re amazing.” Who is this person? She doesn’t know who this woman **_is_**.

Thought she did—

Did she?

_Stop trying to_ _figure it out_.

A body. A **_body_**.

She likes that—the simplicity:

That’s honest, too.

The red bloomed; trickled down her hand. Brin relaxed its grip. Leaned forward;

Put her tongue to it.

_Smirked_.

She thinks of her vallaslin—of silence— _pain_ —

**_Suledin_**.

Thinks this is the only way the human can **_know_** _it_.

_Squeeze_.

Her Anchor hand, _shifts_ —past layers; fabric—

_Higher_ ,

**_finds_** ;

Hot. _Slick_ — already clenching around her fingers.

And she _catches_ it—sees _everything_ :

It makes her **_burn_** ….

The blood _throbbing_ beneath her fingertips—

The **_honesty_**. Glimpses — beyond her control—the human can't **_help_** it—

Blown pupils;

A tilted head;

The **_silent_** , _parted_ mouth—

No _resistance_ …

The fingers in her _twitch_ ;

_Too_ ** _much_** ,

to be anything _else_.

She looks into damp, grey eyes—thinks the woman _wants_ to be **_punished_** ,

_Feels_ **_contradictions_**.

She. Wants to hold her and _destroy_ her; kiss her and _despise_ her—

**_Break_** _her_ —

The hand around her neck tensed.

Until she found something _true_.

_Give me your_ ** _real_**.

Mute pleasure; mute pain—not having enough air to _make a sound_ , was real.

Soft, straining thighs—wetness, _slick_ and _abundant_ between her fingers, was real.

So **_real_** … it made everything, _else_ ,

**_Lesser_**.

Josephine shoved her hips against her hand, _vibrating_ with a tight, frantic energy, as she takes, and takes, and _takes_ —

She knows that _flutter_ — that **_angry_** _desperation_ — that it won’t take long. Even when this isn’t **_for_** her. 

_Isn’t_ ** _about_** _her_.

But, she can’t look away. Look away from that silent mouth: pink and wet and _open_ ,

wordless and greedy and _eager_ ;

A scream she can’t **_give_** —

Brin tilted her head—took it **_in_** :

“You’re so selfish.”

Those walls _clench_ helplessly.

And, she’s beautiful. The **_realest_** thing she’s ever seen—

Trembling; biting; bucking— _reckless_ ;

**_Selfish_**.

Her hand fell away.

Harsh, greedy gasps.

Did she do it for her?

Yes.

No.

When she killed the assassin, she imagined it was the Duke of Wycome.

A bottomless **_bitterness_** :

**_Why_** —

Why isn’t **_her_** family _dead_?

Why does **_she_** get the _happy ending_?

She reclaims her Anchor hand.

Because she’s a shemlen.

Because.

Shemlen. Always.

**_Get_**.

Brin turned.

Left. 

Before the other woman’s eyes swam up from pleasure.

 


End file.
